Just a High Rolling District Boy
by mintjellyfish
Summary: *Sequel to Roulette* Winning the Hunger Games? Easy. Living with the consequences? Not so much. How an animal herder from Ten became the Likeable Jerk of Panem.
1. Uno

**Hey readers! Here is the sequel to Roulette, Just A High Rolling District Boy. I'm not too certain where this one will end, but it will be before the 74****th**** Hunger Games. If I go with the original plot I had in mind, then Johanna's Games (the 69****th**** Hunger Games) will be where I stop. Everything is still undecided. As a precaution, most chapters will be longer than the ones featured in Roulette and A Deck of 24. I hope you like following Giovanni's life after the Games. Enjoy! Oh, and there will be swearing and suggestive scenes.  
**

* * *

**Uno**

"_Is the room prepped?"_

"_Yes sir! Everything is in place."_

"_Heart rate's at 158. He's too high. Stabilize him!"_

"_Where's the defibrillator? We need the defibrillator now!"_

"_Right here sir! Charged and ready. His temperature is through the roof!"_

_ZUUUUUUUUM!_

* * *

"_All his IVs looking good?"_

"_Yep. Just the one on his shoulder needs changing. I can't believe this one made it out alive. Who knew he would win." _

"_Tell me about it. Damn I lost so much money betting on that Seven kid."_

"_Oh please. The little guy from Six was all you could talk about since you saw his Training Score. What was his name again? Elijah or something?"_

"_Who cares, he lost. Did you see his body after this kid went batshit crazy with that whip? Boy did he do a number on him. Could barely recognize him. The Seven guy too."_

"_Too bad. Fabia was the self-proclaimed 'Mrs. Valentino Prescott'. She demanded I buy him fresh out of the Arena, the crazy girl. Daughters, I swear."_

"_He looked like a good kid too. Strong, determined. Once his ex-broad died, he was set. Ah well. You want to get a bite of lunch? I'm craving calamari."_

"_Sure. Let me change his gown first. I kinda forgot to yesterday."_

"_You stupid dolt. If Snow finds out about this…"_

"_Relax, relax. He won't."_

* * *

Cold. I'm cold. It's freezing and something is pressed up on my back. Nothing makes sense. My head is throbbing. Something pinches my nose and arms. My mind and body are out of synch, brain catching my movements two seconds too late. There's activity somewhere close. I can't locate it, muffled by either the room I've been put in or my destroyed hearing.

My hearing…my ear!

My eyes fly open then shut right back.

That wasn't a good idea.

Slowly this time, my eyelids separate and I feel for my face. No scars, marks, nothing. My ear is in place, smooth and secure. No evidence of Valentino's botched attempt to win the Games. Like it never happened. But where the hell I am? The too-bright fluorescent lights pierce through my vision and for a moment I think I'm back inside that place. Someone is shouting. Who is shouting? My throat is sore now. Only when I'm flung back down on my lovely metal bed do I realize I'm trapped, locked and secured. What is this? Is this the Arena? Am I out of the Games?

I smell food. Food and something…antiseptic? Am I in the Stockyard? The Training Center? A hospital? Twisting my sore neck all round, I take in my surroundings. To the left of my bed are rows and rows of shiny, metal instruments. Some simple, like the table topped with glass jars filled with various objects and liquids. Cottons. Swabs. Some piss-colored liquid. Most intricate, like the contraption directly beside me sounding off a low beat every second I breathe or the blocky thing radiating a deep humming noise huddled in the corner. None I could even guess what use they have. Medical junk I assume. Eli would probably know what they were for, right down to the bolts holding them in place. The little guy would be in paradise.

Change of subject.

Dressed in an embroidered tablecloth sits a fine wooden table stretched out across the wall, engulfing most of the right side of the room. Two chairs are positioned at either ends, equally as grand and elaborate. The thing looks more expensive than my entire house, handcrafted and polished in District Seven no doubt. On top sits a gigantic mountain of stuff. A lot of stuff. So much of stuff that I imagine one false move and the entire thing would go crashing to the ground. Scanning the cornucopia, pun intended, I spot just what I'm looking for. There it is! Food! There's food on the table! Hurriedly I sit up again just to be yanked back down, this time I tugging sensation ripping through my already tender body.

This is getting annoying. I look down to see needles prodding and pricking their way inside both my arm. Clear tubes of whatever liquid crap they put in here swim through each, embedded inside my veins. Something's in my nose too, wiggling inside my nostrils. Maybe I shouldn't rip these out of me. Or maybe I should. Fuck the system.

Just as I go to yank the things out of me, three white figures fly through the door. Two of them rush towards me and before I can think rationally, I'm clawing at the two girls clad in white. The one's whose hair I'm currently tugging on looks terrified, wide-eyed and mouth open to form a scream while the other wraps her much smaller gloved hands around my wrist begging me to let her companion go. I'm surprised they don't make any noises. Must be more of those silent servants I saw on the train to the Capitol weeks back. But these two look far younger than those waiters, no older than sixteen if I had to guess. Similar features too. Might be sisters. And they don't possess any features from the ubiquitous monstrosities the big city hails as fashion. Why would girls of the Capitol volunteer for such a menial job like this?

Throughout our tussle, the other figure has had their back turn, yapping away on some small black device glued to their ear. The voice is feminine and vaguely familiar, but I'm too focused on fighting off whatever it is these girls came here to do to me to pay any more attention. I've succeeded in getting one in a headlock and in the process jerk the other downwards, not realizing that all three of us were going along with her. Knocking over the skinny beeping machine, we go tumbling, a loud _SNAP!_ breaking through the air.

Ow.

Oh Panem something hurts.

The loud-mouthed person swings forward, laugh cut short when she sees us sprawled out on the floor.

"I'll call you back," they groan, hanging up the device and shoving it inside their…furry body? Definitely a female but what's with the getup? "What the hell Gigi? Trying to kill off the Avoxes? Get up, both of you."

On command, the two servants leap up like their lives depend on it, shaking off the fall and lifting me up even though I probably weigh more than them combined and soaking wet. What's that red, slippery stuff on their dresses?

It's blood.

It's _my_ blood.

Furry Lady hands them a wad of cotton, holding it at the tips as if the mere connect of their hands will get hers dirty. The girls busy themselves with me, the younger one blotting my arm wound and the other picking up the ripped, bloodied needle from off the floor. One on each side, their eyes meet for the briefest of minutes. A hint of a glare crosses the younger girl's, her movements more forceful. The other, who I can now say for a fact has to be her sister, shakes her head furiously. A silent scolding. Both look ready to shove the ripped needle in my neck but still not a peep comes out of either, tending to me like they actually mean it. The Capitol sure knows how to make them obedient.

Hands on her hips, the woman struts across the room, heels clanking on the linoleum floor. "Is this how you greet me, love?"

"Who are you?" Whose voice was that? Not mine. Mine doesn't sound like a drowning, drugged up dog howling for help. And why did I shout it? Her face drops, a plucked eyebrow raised in concern. The look I'm giving her must not be too welcoming either because the woman is suddenly apprehensive, not so open to running up and embracing me anymore. Sorry Furry Lady, you don't ring a bell.

"They said you wouldn't be yourself once you woke up but…" she thinks aloud. Like a trainer to its lion, Furry Lady tiptoes my way, eyes never leaving my sight. Tilting my head to the side, I take in this woman's strange appearance. Upon closer inspection her furry body is actually one huge white coat, strategically styled to flaunt her slender yet curvaceous frame, cleavage included. Skintight leather boots come just inches away from the tiny exposed part of her dress, matching her coat and gloves. A touch of black cascades down her coat, her straight, shiny hair adorned with two white purposely crooked bunny ears.

There are bunny ears on top of Furry Lady's head.

It's not when the two golden orbs peek from the thick black curtain of bangs do I finally recognize who's standing in front of me.

"Rhapsody, you look absolutely ridiculous."

My recognition of my stylist eases the both of us. She stops looking ready to run for her life and I stop reaching for the nearest object to stab her with. Well actually I lie. My hand is still wrapped around a loose needle hidden under the thin gown I've been given to wear. Of course I won't use it on Rhapsody but it's, you know, just in case.

"Right back at you, love," she chirps, makeuped faced bright and bubbly. A manicured hand reaches for something and it takes for her to pull out a small mirror to not plunge the needle into her heart before she can get me with her weapon. One of the Avox girls sees my spasm and snatches the weapon away, tucking it far into her pocketed dress. Thank Panem Rhapsody's back was turned. Looking at my reflection, I don't even know who this guy is staring back at me. Face gaunt, skin sagging, hair wild and mangled, I look like shit. _Complete_ shit.

"And this is after all the surgeries they performed," she says, reading my mind. "It was worse five days ago. You will look better, I promise. Just a few more surgeries to put the finishing touches on you. I heard Jade looked far worse last year." Of course she did. Who wouldn't look fucked up after having their damn _scalp_ ripped off?

"How do you feel?"

"Like I've been through the Hunger Games. What did you expect?" I answer. "Five days ago? That's how long I've been out?"

Her tone is casual, as if she's discussing the day's activities rather than my near death and resuscitation. Same old Rhapsody. "Yep. With the dehydration, malnutrition, trauma and huge wound from Valentino's axe plus the other battle scars you racked up from your time in the Arena, it took forever for you to get back to normal. The majority of it was getting all that horse tranquilizer and Vroom! Vroom! Bars out of your system. Those two really did you in."

Normal. What does that even mean anymore? Worried at the extent of the damage, I ask her just how bad will it be for me. "How long?"

"Weeks, months maybe," she tells me. "They're unsure just how long the side effects will be, the doctors. The grogginess and sluggish feeling will last for a while, but who knows what permanent effects awaits. Each Victor is different. Some come out fine. Some, not so much. And with a potential addiction on our hands…"

Voice serious, she finishes the retelling of my prognosis. "One more day in the Arena and you wouldn't have made it. We almost lost you Giovanni. _I_ almost lost you." Head cast down, she turns her eyes away from where I lay, a soft sniffle already produced.

And the best actress award goes to...

I sit there, a little annoyed by her theatrics. How did we go from fearing each other to getting all hormonal and emotional? I've done enough of that crying foolishness. She can have her 'time of the month' cry but don't come bringing that over here.

"Don't get sappy over me now Rhapsody," I go to pat her back but it's much rougher than what I meant to, arm flopping in the air and slapping her soft coat. Physical contact is foreign to me. The last time I had it someone was trying to kill me. She notices it, a little uncomfortable with the rough handling.

Suddenly, she springs up from off the bed, causing my brain to go berserk. Dammit for shouting! Calm down Giovanni. Rhapsody is my stylist, not another tribute. Calm down, calm down.

"On a brighter note, I come bearing gifts. Come, come," she skips to the buffet, totally forgetting the pseudo-emotional moment just seconds earlier, motioning for me to join her. Yes Rhapsody, of course, it's just that I'm still strapped to this torture device. Taking out my needles, feeding tube, and metal belt, the Avox girls slowly unleash me from my cage. I'm free!

Stepping off the bed, my knees buckle the minute my bare feet touch the cold tiles.

_WHAM!_

What a way to mark my freedom.

Rushing to my aid, the Avoxes, who might as well be deemed my servants by the way they're glued to me, drag me up to the table, dresses still stained with my blood. Rhapsody's smile is placed back on her face when things are set back in order, already taking it upon herself to enjoy the delicacies. One forms on my face as well when I spot all my Capitol favorites laid out to devour. The spicy sour sweet purple noodle soup, the creamy balls of ice, tubs of goat milk, and other foods I don't recognize are placed in trays and portions far too much for a table of two. Sitting in the middle of it all is steamed jellyfish swimming and brimming in that same damn brown sauce from the night of the Opening Ceremonies.

"Courtesy of Picasso. He had that special ordered," Rhapsody chuckles, covering her mouth to cover her chewing. "Enjoy. I hope you like everything."

"Enjoy I will." The bowl of noodle soup and four things of _conchas_ are in my hands the moment she finishes her sentence. To say I shovel down the food is an understatement. Neither of them never stood a chance, vacuumed inside my mouth before they could process what was going on. This shit is delicious! I forgot food came in flavors, living off the energy bars and questionable water of the Arena for so long.

Oh fuck it, I'm taking the whole bowl.

Smacking, slurping, and scarfing down everything in my wake, I only allow Rhapsody a brief glance in her way. Staring at me with those artificial, golden eyes and ridiculous costume, my stylist resembles a mutt ready to pounce on a defenseless tribute, reminiscent of the night before the Games. But unlike that night, now is _not_ the time for sex. If Rhapsody wants to jump my bones and get it on right here right now she will have to wait. Damn, I'm barely out of the Arena and already she wants sex? I've got myself a horny…..

Confidant? Comfort? Girlfriend? Toy of the Month? Rhapsody barely knows me, and I know less of her. She is a stylist for the Hunger Games, she is very attractive, and she has three boyfriends. Three, and that was before I went into the Games. That's the extent of my knowledge on Rhapsody. I don't even know her last name! We aren't dating but it feels wrong to just reduce the bubbly girl to a fuck buddy. Still, Rhapsody isn't serious enough for me. What are her responsibilities? Blow Daddy's money, get drunk, party till the sun comes up, forget what happened, rinse and repeat? I don't want a girl like that. Could she handle a real relationship? I doubt it. Probably couldn't handle wiping her own ass without a servant picking out the softest tissue to use. She's Capitol, and my stylist. Off-limits, now and forever.

Even as I say all of this, our eyes keep finding themselves locked on each other. Something is crazily addicting about the teenaged Capitolite, and she must feel the same about the district-dweller-turned-Victor. Besides, Maya has moved on. My whore of an ex-girlfriend isn't available anymore. My body knows what it wants. So does Rhapsody's.

Sipping a glass of something clear, my stylist takes one more bite of lettuce before excusing herself to the restroom. She passes through a door that reads in small print 'Underground Level'. So we're beneath something but what? I don't think about it any longer, letting the food sit and settle inside my belly. Oh yes, that was incredible. Mm, I miss food. Food misses me. Who cares what happens after I leave this place or if I ever leave. I'm guaranteed good food. What more could I ask for?

I'm all smiles, eyes closed, leaning back in my chair rubbing my belly until I hear something. It grumbles, growls even. I give the Avoxes a look. They're too busy carrying plates off to notice, silent and stone-faced. If they didn't make that noise then what did?

One drop in my stomach and I know who's the culprit. Oh do I know who it is.

"Oh!" Rhapsody shouts, wiping her mouth as she comes back inside my room/cell. "Do you like my outfit? District Ten inspired."

Another stab at my intestines. What is going on in there? "You some kind of jackrabbit?"

"A what? No. I'm supposed to be an adorable snowbunny. See?" With this, she tugs at the goofy thing on her head and twirls, revealing a small, poofy tail at the end of her fluffy coat. "Your victory is making waves in the Capitol. Glitter and sequins out, furs and animal print fash."

I don't know what the term 'fash' means and could honesty care less right now because my insides are on fucking fire! I'm barely able to whisper out a response, clutching at my stomach. It's like damn knives are flying in there! "Mmm….that's….nice."

"Isn't it? And this causes a higher demand from your district Giovanni. More money for you District Ten people! Anyone who's of importance would rather be hanged than seen in a Jade-inspired getup. Her win is so last year ago, don't you agree?"

Stomach bubbling, acid rising, I can't take it anymore. I nod my head in response, Rhapsody not noticing my despair.

"I've got so many designs laid out for you! From your Victory Interview to your Victory Tour. Oh this is so marvelous! I can't wait!"

It's coming! It's coming! This can't wait either. Panem help me!

Leaping out of the depths of my stomach, the projectile vomit makes a surprise appearance at the dinner, locking its eyes on the unsuspecting target the moment she walks by. The younger Avox is decorated a fine purple-brown tone, adding on to the abstract style blood stain designing her ensemble. In complete shock, struck still, a small yelp is whimpered out. Finishing up upchucking everything I've consumed in the last five days on the small girl's hair, face, dress, legs, and shoes, the world starts spinning and suddenly the ground looks like a nice place to sleep. Words slurring and things shaking, a loud crash echoes throughout the room. The last thing I remember seeing is my stylist jumping out of her chair, screaming for help.

Dammit.

* * *

"What the hell did you feed him Rhapsody?"

"I don't know, like, good food and stuff. Stuff he likes. I was just trying to help!"

"Help? You could have killed him! Did you give him an emetic?"

"Of course not."

"Who even authorized this food? Rhapsody! Be more responsible!"

"I'm sorry, my degree is in fashion design not medicine you simpleton!"

"Then keep designing your silly little outfits and stay away from my tributes, you stupid…..brat."

"Whoa, whoa! Both of you be quiet. I get enough of this at home with the boys. Giovanni is still alive. End of story."

Three figures surround me. Rhapsody looks about three seconds away from clawing the man standing in front of her's throat. He's just as pissed off, if not more. The tan fur jacket, black jeans, and boots just heighten his intimidatingly muscular form and veins popping out of his neck. The girl would be dead in seconds was she to try anything but that fact doesn't faze the Capitolite one bit, stepping closer in her boots, daring him to make the first move. He doesn't, pushed away by an exasperated older woman nearly swallowed in a deep red coat swimming to her knees, also lined with fur.

Esteban! Yesenia!

My moaning breaks up the confrontation, all eyes now on me.

"Giovanni!" Rhapsody squeals, arriving first to pull me into a tight hug, face shoved into her chest. I'm not complaining. A hand appears on her shoulder, giving her a rather hard shove back. We're detached, looking around for the offender.

"Save the histrionics. You've done enough," Esteban shoos her away. She stays her ground. "You had me worried there, _amigo_. Once we saw you drink that horse tranquilizer, everyone thought it was game over."

Two arms envelop my body, suffocating me in the mounds of muscle, suede, and fur. "The first one to live. See Yesenia, you were wrong. I knew we shouldn't have given up on him. He lived dammit. He lived!" When I'm finally released from his bear hug, Esteban sniffles, staring down at me like a father proud of their son's first ranch and livestock. Are those droplets of tears I see?

Hm, in the three years he's been District Ten's male mentor, I am Esteban's first winning tribute. Fuck yeah! I have to say it feels pretty damn awesome, even if I'm bare-assed, strapped down, and hooked up to these machines again. But 'See Yesenia, you were wrong'? Just what were the two discussing to warrant that random comment? Immediately I'm suspicious of the first female Victor of District Ten. Yesenia was Sofia's mentor. She hasn't had a win since what, Xiomara? That was five years back. Every year a Victor wants their tribute to come home alive, so five girls (make that six now) are one too many. Ultimately when it came down to it, she wanted Sofia to win, not me. A darker thought creeps its way inside my head.

Yesenia and Sofia had to have discussed how to win at some point. She could have been the one who gave Sofia the idea to poison me. That would be pretty awful. No, Yesenia wouldn't…..would she? Is she disappointed that the well-orchestrated plan fell to pieces? Angry at me? I would hope not but who knows what the woman thinks. She is so quiet!

Looking at the Victor, I mumble out a weak apology. For whatever reason, I feel the need to do so, even if it was Sofia who tried to kill me. "I'm sorry."

Her response is instant. She already knows what for. "Don't be. You and me both knew what the odds were for Sofia. In a way, I believe she did too."

Now it's time for us to face Yesenia. Esteban holds a knowing expression, nodding his head slowly in agreement. I'm sure he can relate, having mentally told himself the exact same words last year, the year before, and the years to come. Shifting her gaze down to the floor, Rhapsody doesn't really know how to respond to talk about the tribute she hardly got to know, silently distancing herself from the very intimate moment between the three of us. One look at the middle-aged, meek woman and I know she's telling the total truth. So that's that. I am forgiven for what happened in the Arena and whatever thoughts or strategies she had prior to my win are left in the past.

Two small tears flow down her cheek, hand quickly wiping them away. "Well. This has been quiet an emotional day," fingers rubbing her temples, she lets out a light sigh. "I need a drink."

The thought of the motherly, strait-laced Yesenia downing a bottle of alcohol makes us break out into laughter, Rhapsody included. The little squabble between my mentor and stylist is like yesterday's drama, looking at each other and sharing in on the ephemeral joy. Much-needed relief from the tension and sadness of our emotions granted, I change the conversation to a lighter yet equally important subject.

"You aren't off the hook Victor Ventura," I tease my mentor, elbowing him in the side. "What was up in the Arena? Bread and a piece of paper? Really?"

Esteban gives an innocent look, putting his arms up in surrender. "That was the special trick for this year's Games. Cheap sponsor gifts. Since there were supplies in each building, the Gamemakers saw anything else "unnecessary"."

"The trick for this year's Games? Not including the bombs, steel Arena, derma diggers, human grinder, and trivia show from hell?"

Esteban is about to agree with me when Yesenia interrupts, shooting us both a warning look. "I'm sure the Capitol has a valid reason for everything it does."

Translation: They are watching us. Not the time or place to discuss this.

Oblivious Rhapsody hums in agreement, readily supporting her bloodthirsty, depraved home.

Why do I have to censor my speech? I already won the Hunger Games. They can't touch me. Rolling my eyes, I change subjects yet again. "So when can I get out of this place?"

Esteban pats my shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "You should be just about ready to leave now _amigo_. Wouldn't you say so Yesenia?"

"Not before my evaluation of course."

An icy, flat voice slithers into the room. We turn in unison to meet a tall female figure standing at the doorway. Accompanied with her is the two sister Avoxes from before, thankfully in clean uniforms now, and a horde of others. Swarming around me, I start to yelp and hit at the mysterious white-coated beings and they quickly subdue me, arms holding strength equal to Creek's stranglehold on me just days ago. Pushed to the side, it's clear my mentors don't feel too happy to see the people either, unwelcoming eyes glaring at each of the figures and the woman blocking the exit. Rhapsody isn't sure what to make of the situation either, gazing confusedly at the sight in front of her. Unhooking and unlatching me from my confinement, I'm still held down by four gloved hands. I'm not sure if these figures are male or female.

"I am Luciana Luticio but please, call me Lulu. Refer to me as your friend. Trust me as your friend."

I will not refer to her as a friend and I damn sure will _never_ trust her as a friend. Black hair streaked with lines of blue and silver commanded into a bun pulls at her surgically altered face, making her artificially youthful visage distorted and terrifying. Completing her look is a two-piece solid black business suit, pants flowing over her heels giving off the appearance of a levitating ghost. Her nearly transparent skin doesn't make things any better. She looks severe, clinical. Something is not right about this woman. I don't know what but it's a gut feeling. No matter what she says, she is not on my side. Just what is this Lulu woman here to do?

"As your personal psychiatrist, I have been assigned by our honorable President Snow to assess and document your psychological and emotional state of being." One of the fancy chairs Rhapsody and I sat on to enjoy our meal is pulled out and given to the woman. Lulu brushes past the two Victors, not granting them an ounce of acknowledgment. The silent fury in their gaze tells me they know Lulu and they know her well.

"My job is of the utmost important, as I am the bridge between presenting yourself to the awaiting public for your Victory Interview or requiring further recuperation underneath the Training Center. And how could I forget," she smiles a smile full of malice and deceit.

"My evaluation determines if medication will be best to aid you along your journey to becoming a proper Victor."

So she's one of Snow's minions sent in to see if I've gone crazy and need to be subdued. Everyone knows the messed up Victors, the ones so ruined by the Games that they need the Capitol's "assistance" or their own demon of choice to make it through an interview or TV segment. I will not let myself be reduced to a drooling, babbling incompetent. I won't end up like Mortimer and Mildred from Six, affectionately known as The Morphlings in the districts. I cast a silent cry for help Esteban's way. Esteban won't let this happen to me, will he? I'm still his tribute. Biting away at his lower lip, I'm not too sure what his answer would be, or if he would have a choice in the matter.

"Leave," Lulu commands in a soft, simple voice. Ushering out my team, my mentor glances back one last time at his tribute before the door is slammed shut in his face. All that's left in the room are me, Lulu, and two white coats, ready to act in case I try anything crazy. If I could just reach the scalpel on that metal plate a few feet away from me. Could take one out and make a run for it. Or send it flying through Lulu's chest. Which one would be faster?

"Distracted?" questions Lulu, stenciled eyebrow raised in curiosity. It's then I realize her eyes are red, the shade of blood to be exact. They remind me of a muttation from a Hunger Games five or six years back. Her devious grin lets me see she knows exactly what I'm thinking. Something tells me Lulu has been doing this job for quite some time, and enjoys what she does.

Legs crossed, clipboard ready, she clears her throat. "Let's begin with a few general questions. When were you born?"

"February 4th. 330th Year of Panem. 43rd Hunger Games," I answer, not missing a beat.

"How long has our honorable President Snow held office?"

_For too long._ "A very long time."

She writes down something on her clipboard, a very long message from how long it takes her to finish. "Good. Now for the fun part. How did each death in the Arena affect you?"

I stare at her. She stares right back. Will I give her the truth, or will I lie to the woman trained at dissecting a Victor's damaged soul? "Like roadblocks on my way to victory."

Fingernail tapping her chin, she begins to challenge me. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Remember," a smile forms yet again. "Lying can be counterproductive to your overall recovery. I am your friend Giovanni."

"Are you implying that I'm giving you false information, Dr. Luticio?" You will not beat me Lulu. You will not win.

Body frigid, Lulu does not approve of this power struggle. "Not at all Victor Del Rojo." She lets me claim this round, stabbing away at the clipboard with an even longer note than before.

For the rest of the time, Lulu questions, quizzes, and queries me on every single topic and tidbit she can think of. From the mundane: politics, family life. To the serious: what was going through my head when I first teamed up with Eli and Chiffon, if I wanted vengeance for what Sofia attempted to do to me. To the hypothetical: who I would've wanted to win had I not gone into the Games, if I would change anything I did in the Games. I answer each question immediately and properly. She even tries to trip me up a few times, sprouting bizarre topics out of the blue. If it's working I surely can't tell, the ghostly woman scribbling down notes incessantly and conducting the session in a detached, emotionless voice.

"How do you feel about the Games themselves?" is her last question. With this, I sit up completely, causing the white coats to shift in their movements.

I will give her the truth, for there is no fucking way I could fabricate a convincing lie to a question like that. "You learn that through the Hunger Games, the Capitol has ultimate power over our lives. Always has, always will."

Her fangs bear themselves. Lulu is beside herself at my honest admission. Capitol accent thick, she calls an end to the interrogation in what felt like hours and utters a low sound out of her throat. The door opens and my team rush back in, body language drowned in worry, Esteban holding up the worst.

"He's free to leave. No medication is required at the current time of evaluation," Lulu answers the question hanging in the air. Closing her eyes and smirking, seemingly pleased with her work, she floats away to leave, white coats following her dutifully.

"By the way Victor Del Rojo," she continues to address me in what I assume is now my official title. "The perfect Capitol concoction is always a phone call away in case you ever need to be…maintained. This marks our first and possibly last meeting, depending on how you behave in the future. Feisty Victors see me more often than their compliant peers. Enjoy your new life as Victor and may the odds be ever in your favor."

And with that, the wicked witch of the Capitol is gone.

When we're sure Dr. Luciana Luticio has vanished, we all let out a sigh of relief.

"Bitch," Rhapsody mumbles out of the side of her mouth, decorated eyes glancing where the woman sat, kicking the chair to the side with surprising force. "I don't know where she comes from, treating us like that."

For once, no one disagrees with the usually ditzy Capitolite teen. No one knows and no one cares. All that matters is she's gone.

Rhapsody claps her hands, gaining our attention. "Now that that's over, time to focus on what's really important: your Victory Interview! Can you say lights, camera, awesome?"


	2. Dos

**I wanted to upload this ASAP as I'm going on a trip tomorrow afternoon. This will be my first time going out of town without my parents, just me and my friends. You can imagine how excited I am leaving this small town and hitting up the big city. Yay for being 20 years old with little responsibilities! (summer class, you'll just have to wait till Monday)**

* * *

**Dos**

Total chaos has erupted.

In one room sits me, Rhapsody, Esteban, and Lulu. Both mentor and therapist are in a race to see who can drive fresh-out-of-the-Arena Giovanni to a nervous breakdown first. Esteban is to my left, shouting (he could easily be heard at a conversational level) tips and pointers he insists are urgent. Nodding my head every few seconds whenever he stops talking, Lulu has the nerve to clamp my chin and twist my face toward her to demand total attention. The phantom woman is to my right, conducting this impromptu test or that emergency assessment. Rhapsody lies in the middle, dolling me up for the cameras and gushing over just how gorgeous I look. And here I am, sandwiched in between it all.

"Remember: Smile. No, not like that Giovanni. You look like a maniac. Look like you're happy to see them…..Yes, that's it. Perfect."

"At the current moment, rate your stress level on a 1 to 10 scale please."

"37."

Hands run through my new hairstyle, the shaggy, slightly disheveled look from before making a reappearance. I want my ponytail back. "Done! My masterpiece is complete. If looks could kill, you'd be a murderer."

Lulu clears her throat. Esteban opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again. A short, outraged shout. Eyebrows scrunched in question, Rhapsody smiles, cluelessly wondering what his problem is. Just when I thought they were getting along again.

I intervene before either one can say anything. "Rhapsody, I'm still in my underwear."

A bedazzled man, part of the production crew, bursts into the room, frazzled hair bouncing with each step. "10 minutes people!" He spots me sitting in the styling chair clad in my white briefs and shrieks, shielding his eyes with his clipboard. The Capitol sees kids getting killed year in year out and this one's getting squeamish over me being halfway naked?

"Where are his clothes?" the glittering man utters, clipboard still blocking his sight. Huffing, he struts out of the door before anyone can answer. "Throw something on the lewd boy and have him ready! He's due to be up soon."

Next door, more tomfoolerly is taking place. In the lounge room lies my frantic prep team and a very confused Yesenia. The poor mentor has been given the very unfortunate duty of calming down the three Capitolites assigned to dress me up for the Capitol's viewing. Instead of doing their quite simple jobs, they've decided to shift their entire focus on their unconscious co-worker. The unconscious co-worker who fainted after being slapped with divorce papers from Wife #4. Not that it was high on my priority list but I'm finally told the names of my preparation team: Octavia, Octavian, and Octavius.

What a coincidence.

There are slight differences between the trio. Octavius is the tallest. Octavian has a slightly deeper voice. Octavia is a woman. Other than, the fluorescent orange Capitolites still talk, walk, eat, and defecate in harmony.

Through the mirror's reflection, I watch the drama unfold: Octavia uses a bag of makeup cottons to fan a sprawled out Octavius, who doesn't seem to be coming to anytime soon. Octavian rambles on a mile a minute, Yesenia struggling to make sense of the neon man's jumbled words while calling for help at the same time. I'm over here scared shitless over what's about to happen and my prep team ignores me for their sordid lives?

It's the night of the Victory Interview and all that could go wrong has gone wrong. Well, not everything. Lulu has been implementing various methods to quicken my recovery and adjustment to life outside the Arena and as a Victor. Using one self-help strategy in particular, the "Post Games Victor Happiness Assessment", which doesn't make for a good acronym, I try to count the number of good things that have happened since I've woken up in the underground Training Center holding room yesterday afternoon. "Picking the positives", as she says:

After a few more surgeries, minor ones, I'm not completely fucked up anymore. I'm healthy-looking, attractive even. Granted how I was yesterday, putting me in drag and a forked tongue would have been better.

The sick, sluggish feeling from before has vanished too after Lulu gave me a dose of something round and colorful and forced me to swallow. Not much resisting you can do with two gloved gorillas pinning you down and a white ostrich at your throat, literally.

Picasso has yet to make an appearance. Where and why the drunk has been M.I.A., no one has bothered to ask.

My prep team has finally come to their senses, dragging a dazed Octavius through the hallway. Neither of the three thinks to check on my well-being.

Lulu has lied to me (I've seen the woman twice since our original "talk") and I'll never trust her but I gotta say; the business suit knows her stuff. Her methods work. Some of them do. Already I'm more and more relaxed as I list off the other positives. Or it could be the nerves finally doing me in.

Motioning for his assistance, Rhapsody and Esteban abruptly exit the room. Immediately, alarms sound off in my head. Damn it! I'm left alone with Lulu again! She smiles, placing a hand on my shoulder. Speaking of the devil. Why is her skin so cold?

"About time we're given our alone time."

* * *

In what feels like eons crawling by, my mentor and stylist are rushing back inside the dressing room. In their hands lie a long black bag and a shiny box on top. A shoe box.

Lulu has a light flickering in one eye and an ink-splotched picture in the other, distorting the flashlight and shoving the drawing in my face in response to the sudden interruption. My whimpers go unnoticed. "Excuse me. I'm finishing up the last of my tests."

She tries to speak over the ruckus they're creating only to be shooed away, instruments thrown to the floor by a flick of Rhapsody's hand. Was that by accident or on purpose? The sly grin on her face says the latter.

"There's no more time for that," says the teen, knocking over a few cologne bottles in her wake. The bluish liquid seeps on the plush purple carpet. "You've been here, like, forever anyway."

The psychiatrist is not happy with being talked down to. Smirking, Esteban escorts her out before she can retaliate, closing the door behind them.

Now it's just me and Rhapsody. A silence falls over the dressing room, the overhead ventilation humming softly through the air. The spilled fragrance slowly hijacks our senses but neither of us seems to notice. All we can do is stare at each other. Me bare chested, shivering a little under the cool breeze floating about the room. Her in another furry ensemble, a cool blue shawl complete with an oversized bow on top her head. Our little moment ends when she unzips the long bag placed in her hands.

"Your victory outfit," she tells me, unraveling the plastic covering underneath the black bag.

"Oh joy," I moan. I half-expect some ridiculous king's robe from the ancient fairy tales told to the little ones back home, sheared from the finest buffalos of Ten and dyed straight in the blood of newborn calves to fit the Capitol's insanity. What she reveals isn't a foolish get-up or crazy costume. It isn't anywhere near it.

A three-piece suit: silver blazer, vest and dress pants, thin vertical lines decorating it a deeper, darker gray. A simple black button-up, satin material. Finishing it off is a rather fat tie, striped in black and silver. My old interview suit.

"Let's not forget your shoes." Opening the shiny box placed on the vanity mirror's table, she hands me the black boots and begins her work.

Noise envelops us, crashing and tumbling its way outside the purple wooden door. The hurried clanking of stilettos. The chattering and shouting of crewmen running about the place. Esteban and Yesenia speaking amongst themselves close by. I view through the circular window placed by the ceiling-length armoire. It's a tiny thing, barely able to make out the other side, but I get a glimpse of what's waiting out there for me. I don't like what's waiting out there for me. But in here, not a sound is made. For once, there is peace, finally, peace. It's such a badly needed reprieve that I absorb every second of it. Who knows how long this moment will be.

Adjusting the buttons on the shimmering vest, I find myself distracted with my stylist's presence. Her hands are amazingly soft, palms grazing my cheeks to clean up the whiskers of facial hair strategically splattered about my jawline with the cold foamy stuff from last time. Through the fumes of the cologne I catch a whiff of her own perfume. A fruity, feminine fragrance resembling strawberries mixed with her natural musk. Straightening my tie, gold eyes peer up into mine. Rhapsody is so close to me that I can make out tiny details of her that I haven't noticed before. Like the small jewels decorating the tips of her eyelashes. Or the smatter of freckles dotting her tan face, fighting its way through the makeup she doesn't need.

Something comes over me. My lips meet hers. We kiss. A short peck, but a kiss nevertheless.

The teenaged stylist is struck still, hands planted on my crisp shirt collar. I can't read her emotion. Then, a smile lights up her pretty face, cheeks going up like those winged children in the Capitol building designs I've seen around the city. "What brought that about?" she asks me, curious eyes staring into my own.

I shrug. "Honestly, I don't know." I pause, then with a naughty grin. "Did you not want me to do that Miss Rhapsody?" Blushing, she hits my shoulder, shooting me a playful glare.

"_I_ didn't mind at all. It's just…I didn't think you'd be so open to physical affection so soon. You've only been up for two days." A small hand is placed on my broad chest, it moving up and down, matching the rhythm of my breathing. It waves through the blazer to touch my shirt, stroking the silky fabric back and forth.

"I didn't think so either." Since I woke up I've been hesitant of anyone getting too close to me, flinching when a hand touches my body or peering out of the corner of my eye if someone stands too close behind me. For whatever reason, I just feel safe here with Rhapsody. At ease. She has that sort of innocent calming effect about her. A sweet naivety. It's like your problems just wash away when you're around her sometimes. I can't explain what effect the ditzy Capitolite has on me but what I do know is that I like it. It makes me happy. And right now, I think no more on the subject and just enjoy the feeling.

Kissing me once more, Rhapsody turns me around to face the mirror. Minus a few differences here and there, I'm just like the boy who went up to face the Capitol just weeks ago, right down to the purposely unkempt hair and first two buttons undone. Was it weeks ago? Gosh, it felt like _years_ since the Tribute Interviews took place.

"Like you never went in," Rhapsody whispers, staring at my immaculate reflection, breathe teasing my earlobe.

A bitter, emotional laugh comes out. "No amount of fancy suits or pretty dresses can change that."

A harsh knock wakes us up from our trance. "What are you two doing in there? It's time!"

It's Esteban, and he sounds angry.

Looking at each other, we steal one last peck.

Rhapsody runs a finger through my hair. "Kill'em dead out there."

I shake my head, amused by the girl's oblivious ways. "You've gotta stop with the murder references."

Hand covering her mouth, she grimaces at her mistake, which just makes me want to kiss her some more. "Oops. I'm sorry!"

Nearly breaking off the hinges, my mentor bursts inside and drags me away before I can do so. Veined hands gripping me by the collar, I never realized how strong the twenty-year-old was.

"When I say it's time to go, it's time to go. Understand?"

I make sure he can't see me rolling my eyes in the darkened hallway. I hate this version of Esteban. When things get crazy, he gets crazier. From my short time being around the winner of the 58th Hunger Games, I've picked up on a few things about Esteban Ventura. Obedience and respect is expected and demanded from him. He is a stickler for rules. He's not as friendly and cool-tempered as he puts on in front of the cameras. And he clearly hates late tributes. Particularly late tributes who knows how to push the right buttons. I understand that I am his first winning tribute and that I represent him, fine, but does he have to be so high-strung all the damn time? There's no way I'm gonna make this job my life or let everything get to me the way he does when I mentor next year.

Mentoring next…..I sweep the horrible thought under the rug. I don't even want to _think_ about that.

We hurry our way through the swarm of crewmen and stagehands, buzzing about around the long concrete hallway. The closer we get to the main entrance, an open space closed off by a grand curtain, the higher the panic in my body rises. The concrete reminds me of the Arena. Everything is so loud. My thoughts are all over the place, sense and structure gone. Where is Esteban? Where is everyone?

Breathe Giovanni, breathe. You can do this. You're strong. You won the Hunger Games. What is a little interview gonna do to you?

Any confidence I had is incinerated the moment I hear it. I'm sent flying back by the familiar, blaring noise. They've changed up the opening music! It's my song, the song that played in the Arena! The bastards!

I can't do this. I can't do this.

No, no, no, no, no.

"Esteban please! Make it stop. I don't wanna go out there. Don't make me." I don't care if I'm begging, cowering in another man's arms. Just don't make me face the music. Literally. "Please. They've gone too far this year."

When my mentor speaks, he sounds more damaged than I. How does it feel, watching me break down like this? "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Giovanni but we have no choice. Just…be the character that they want you to be. The Likeable Jerk, remember?"

I only nod in response, face still covered in his leather jacket. A few stagehands whisper conspiratorially a few feet away, ready to run to the gossips and blabber about my breakdown, and it takes every fiber of my being not to unleash my fury on the stupid men.

Caesar's voice booms through the place, making me to jump and accidentally knock Esteban in the chin. He says nothing about it, only rubbing the area for a few seconds before going back to comforting me. "From the deserts of District Ten to the streets of Panem's greatest, I present you your newest Victor, Giovanni Del Rojo!"

"Stay strong, _joven guerrero_. _Puedes hacerlo_."

One swift push forward and here I am, raw and ready, thrown to the lions.

For the first couple of seconds, I'm not able to move, awestruck by the grandeur of this spectacular place. You would think with this being my second time coming to the City Circle and seeing it broadcasted yearly on the television screen would numb me to its effects, but no, neither could have prepared me for this. So much applause, so much fanfare, so much excitement. For what? Congrats on killing off a few kids and almost dying in the process?

Two hands strap on my arms. For once, I'm thankful for the loud music beating on my eardrums for they drowned out the not-so-quiet shriek I let out. Slowly, I'm guided down the carpeted path to the front of the stage, Peacekeeper at each side. They must have realized I needed a bit of "assistance" getting to the platform. How ironic; just how it was on Reaping Day. If I keep this up, it'll be a running gag surely used against me. I can see it now:

'He can win the Hunger Games, but can he make it to the stage by himself?'

Stage coming closer to view, I spot rows of something sitting past the glistening Caesar, past the elaborate throne set out for me, past the horde of lights and cameras locked on the talk show star's looming figure.

In the corner of the stage sit twenty-three empty interview chairs placed coincidentally behind my throne. _Their_ chairs. Three weeks ago, they were filled with the faces of my competitors. Now they stare back at me, accusing me of my crimes. Do they know what I did to their occupants? Typical Capitol, going above and beyond to make you its bitch. They know no limits. They really don't.

"Why hello there Victor Del Rojo!" Flickerman's theatrical voice breaks me out of my thoughts. Bright lights shine overhead, blinding my view of the sea of people spanning out at the bottom. When did I get on stage?

Twisting his thin lips, the talk show host decides to start the night off cracking jokes. Does it look like I want to laugh, Caesar? I'm not in the mood for humor but it's the best option I've got right now. "Say, I think we have a copycat on our hands, eh audience?"

Caesar compares his glossy get-up to mine, which is pretty similar in design and color, minus his silver updo. I dutifully play along and the crowd gets a great laugh out of the whole act, the two of us picking and preening each other in mock surprise. The music thankfully comes to a close and eventually everyone settles into their seats, ready for the show to begin.

"Shall we review your Games?" Flickerman's signature smile gleams in the stage lights above.

Like I have a choice in the matter. I lean back in the cushy velvet, shrugging my shoulders. Act like the Likeable Jerk. That's what they want. "Go right ahead."

Lights are dimmed and the audience falls silent. In the brief second of quiet, I stare up at the night sky, illuminated by the tiny stars and full moon. A sharp wind pierces through the layers of clothing I have on, chilling me to the bone. Oh, all the things I could be doing right now, things that I truly love, instead of becoming Panem's newest celebrity. Seeing my family. Ivan. Maya. District Ten. Home. Just a few more hours in this place. Just a few more hours and I'm free forever.

Too soon is the silence over. Panem's seal then the words 'THE 61ST HUNGER GAMES' pop up on the gigantic screen to the right of us.

I grip the side handle to stop shaking.

Let the Games begin.

I stop breathing when it appears. One by one we're lifted into the Arena, standing impatiently on our plates. To describe the feeling of watching my own Games in one word would have to be surreal. It is just so bizarre seeing myself up on the big screen and remembering exactly how I felt at that moment, and having it radiate through the screen and infect me even after it's over. How I masked my terror with cockiness, like I'm doing right now. Or how much joy I took in seeing Sofia's petrified face in response to the unique Arena we were thrown in. Worse is seeing the others so alive and healthy. Sly Radiance. Stoic Domitia. Sleazy Virgo. Scheming Eli. Determined Chiffon. No one having any idea what horrible deaths await each and every one of them.

If this is hard for me, I can't imagine how the dead tributes' families are holding up.

The gong rings and the madness begins. Unlike the first-person view of years past, the editors decided to give us a birds-eye view of the action, allowing me a front row seat to all the action. Simultaneously, the faces of every non-Career light up in realization that heading to the Cornucopia would result in certain death and everyone flees the area.

Except Nace and Wanda.

Wanda tries to move away but she is too taken over by another asthma attack. Orazio ceases the opportunity for murder. Like an crazed beast, the Career sweeps in, snaps the girl's neck, and propels the poor tribute towards the back of the golden horn, corpse doing somersaults off the metal.

He smiled throughout the entire thing.

Nace's fate isn't any better. Trying to maneuver his way inside the horn, the brown-haired guy soon becomes the second kill of the 61st Hunger Games, taken by complete surprise by a hidden Valor and mercilessly hacked away with his lumbering axe.

I wonder how his parents feels, seeing how stupid their son was. Did he not notice everyone abandoning the Cornucopia?

The cameras zoom out to the rest of the bloodbath. Penelope loses a frightened Virgo once the Nine door closes in front of her, immediately zoning in on her new prey: a crouching Clay from Twelve. Surprisingly, the thin boy decided to take the offense, bare hands and all. Challenging Oliver from Eight, it only resulted in him getting jerked away and given a broken nose by the bigger boy. Regaining himself, he springs up off the floor, narrowly escaping the Career's grasp and taking refuge in the Twelve tower. Creek and Domitia fare the same, allowing three other tributes to slip through their hands. Throughout the pandemonium, Chiffon and Eli are like quiet mice, smoothly arriving to the Eight building without incidence. I have to nod at their stealth. Smart thinking.

The same can't be said for me.

I flinch when Koring knocks me to the ground, readies his foot over my head, then gets impaled by Radiance's spear. The audience lets out a collective 'Ooh', including Flickerman, turning towards me for my added input. I stay silent. In the Arena, seconds felt like hours, but witnessing it again his death happened just like that.

While the first day wraps up, I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the screens off to the side. I seem nonchalant, bored. Unimpressed. Good. I don't want to seem entertained by this. They should see how much I really hate being here, the people at home. How no Reaping or pretty costume will change me. I'm still district, through and through. The crowd around me may be too entranced by the playback video but my tiny act of defiance won't go unnoticed with the people of the districts.

Just enough to be seen, not enough to cause concern.

The Victory Review drags on and on for what feels like an eternity. I'm in and out throughout the process, gradually losing the willpower to pay attention. Scenes flash by. The second bloodbath. Tottie's and Lavender's death. Me teaming up with Chiffon and Eli. Ramona's death. The wolf pack's daily hunts and coming up with nothing to show for. Tributes faring off in the other buildings. Most lay low, acquiring supplies and avoiding the numerous traps and tricks set in the steel towers. My time in the Games seem comfortable compared to what others went through. Cecily nearly bludgeons Valentino to death with her sizable wooden club until she is restrained and gives way to reason. An alliance is formed, but that doesn't stop old memories and bitter feelings from rearing its ugly head.

Isaiah has it worst out of everyone; almost hourly is he subjected to a new trap, horrific setups chipping away at his body and mind. Whenever he goes to pray, something else is unleashed on the boy. They show a starving, mentally unstable District Nine stumble upon Sofia hiding high up in the grain tower, life spared only by the food she has to offer. A shaky truce is enacted just to be broken hours later, Isaiah stumbling upon Morgana and nearly strangling her to death. My district partner flees before she's next.

Chin in my hand and humming the national anthem, the next scene sends me back to reality. Escaping District Nine, my acne-ridden district partner comes across a room filled to the brim with water bottles. The door literally opens the moment she passes by. Water bottles sitting perfectly in place, lined up one by one, waiting for a gullible tribute to bite.

Why didn't I go inside the Nine building?

Having no other options, Sofia takes the bait, though she isn't totally stupid. Peeping her head through the doorway, she pokes in a toe. Then a foot, a leg, an arm. Seeing nothing jump out to rip her to shreds, Sofia bolts inside, grabs the first two she can spot, and leaves. To make things more ominous, the door slams close and locks itself, returning to its unassuming position.

I wait for the moment she spikes the bottle given to me, just knowing I'm about to witness her betrayal.

It never comes.

The scrawny Community Rat takes two sips of the bottle she shared with Eli and goes on her way.

Wait a minute.

If Sofia didn't poison the water, then who did?

Skip the rest. I don't care about Dmitri's fight against bird muttations or Domitia and Penelope's arguing. I need to see who tried to take me out of the running. Was probably that coward Eli, his conniving little ass.

Time flies (more like crawls by) and Sofia appears on the screen again. This time, it is for an entirely different reason. She is even worse off than what I remember her to be, hiding out in the Three building, so far gone by the events of the Arena and her betrayal of our alliance. Too out of it to see Eli greet her at the doorway. So the Six boy really was the one to finish her off. At least he doesn't prolong her suffering with a flashy kill or any type of torture. Eli hesitates, lets out a long sigh, then proceeds with the killing. She's delivered a quick, precise end: grabbed by her curly hair, the dagger pierces her jugular. Just one long, agonizing scream and the deed is done.

Soon, it's down to the final four: Domitia, Radiance, Valentino, and me. My fingers tap the golden throne impatiently as my haggard Arena self takes on a limping Radiance. Even as the final blow is dealt to Valentino's mutilated body and the screen goes black, I'm still staring at the screen, waiting.

That's it? No explanation given? Stop clapping Capitolites. Stop cheering and laughing Caesar. We're not done. I demand answers.

Caesar yells through the clapping. "And that wraps up another exciting year of the Hunger Games!"

"No it doesn't," I say. Somehow Flickerman hears me through the cheering and shouting. Giving me a subtle glance that politely reads 'Shut up and play along', the silver man's smile broadens as he pats my shoulder a little harder than what I expect.

The crowd dies down and Caesar begins the mandatory interview. "I know you're just dying to give the audience and viewers at home intimate details on your time in the Arena."

Well actually Mr. Flickerman, I'm just dying to give the Capitol a very big 'Fuck you!' but I'll hold that thought for another time. I slouch in my posture, daring to hang one leg off the throne handle. "Wait, that was the Arena? I thought it was a warm-up."

Caesar squints his eyes before quickly joining in in the laughter. The man did not find my comment too humorous. Yes Flickerman, I will be difficult. I will not make this easy for you.

The rest of the interview continues on, and everything falls into a sort of system. Caesar says something charming and charismatic, I say something rude and sarcastic, the audience falls in love with me, rinse and repeat. No matter how hard I try to make them not like me, they do it anyway. I'm beginning to get when realize something: this is the perfect Interview angle. I can be a straight-up bitch to the cameras and they actually like it. They actually _encourage_ it. What were past Victors thinking? Nice guys don't win over the crowds. The Capitol likes to be criticized, mocked, and belittled. As long as you disguise it as good fun of course.

Hook, line, and sinker.

By the time my Victory Interview over, the audience is hooting and hollering and Caesar is two seconds away from wetting his pants in laughter. Even I'm laughing a bit, snickering at the stupidity of these people. These aren't jokes you idiots. I'm openly insulting every single one of you and none of you bastards can see through my poorly constructed façade. This is too easy.

"Oh my goodness!" Flickerman wipes off the sweat forming on his forehead. "This one, this one's a keeper. Audience, don't you agree?"

Holding up my arm, I receive a standing ovation. A standing _freaking_ ovation for making a fool out of them. They're eating right out of my hands.

My bravado is compromised for a second when the music from earlier starts up. I clear my throat and pretend to enjoy the song, commenting to Caesar on what great memories it brings up. In his finest suit adorned with jewels, the Panem seal, and a single white rose, President Snow teleports to the right hand side of the City Circle and makes his way to the stage, accompanied and heavily guarded by a squadron of Peacekeepers. Can't have Mr. President all alone with a mass murderer.

Too bad.

"My, my, my," he speaks when he reaches me, running a cold finger through my hair to make way for the crown. Naturally I twitch. Not only is this the president of Panem inches away from me, there is something off about the old man's scent. What is that awful smell? It's like the scent is on his breath. Is that roses and…..?

Gently, he places the shimmering crown on top my head, running yet another set of fingers through my hair. Does the old man want me for himself or something? Looking me dead in the eye, the corners of his mouth go up in a grin. The grin of a person who knows something you don't.

"You are quite the character, Mr. Del Rojo. I'm sure my citizens will enjoy your infectious personality for the years to come. Congratulations on your remarkable win. Until we meet again."

Patting my shoulder once, he and his posse leave the stage. Caesar puts out his hand towards Snow only to left hanging by the bearded man, knocked away by a Peacekeeper.

What was that all about?

* * *

"You really did play up the Likeable Jerk role Giovanni," Esteban tells me, sipping from his glass of sparkling juice.

We're back inside the Training Center, having one last dinner in the Capitol. In the morning, it will be time for me to pack up and board the train to District Ten. The thought of getting back to my home, to seeing everyone again…I still can't believe it's really going to happen. It feels so unreal. I'm really going to see my family again!

The edibles may be tame this evening but the guest list certainly isn't. The whole gang is here tonight: Yesenia, Rhapsody, my prep team, Dante, who was Sofia's stylist, and her prep team are gathered to see me before I make my leave. Lulu invited herself to the soiree, happily feasting on her third plate of a thing called tofu. Everyone is here, except Picasso. He still has not surfaced. I guess an escort's job isn't that important once the Games are over, but I would imagine him at least popping his head in to congratulate me on making him a success. Esteban's not the only one who should be celebrating bringing back their first winning tribute. Maybe Snow fired the charcoal man. Or he had one too many drinks and killed over while the Games were going on. I ask if anyone knows where he is and everyone just shrugs their shoulders. Picasso and I didn't get along and probably never will, yet I wouldn't wish any ill will upon him. He was my escort. He played a part in my success. Anyone who helped me lived is on my side.

Sucking on a chicken bone, I respond back to my mentor, innocent voice set to the max. "Wouldn't you want me to give it my all?"

Esteban is not swayed by my act. "Yeah, well you were a little _too_ believable up there. Think of how you'll be received by the crowds."

Yesenia swats her younger colleague away. Victor Ruiz takes her job far less seriously than Esteban does. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad thing. "Don't listen to the Debbie Downer. You did just fine up there Giovannni."

Rhapsody nods her head in agreement, squirrel cheeks full of mashed potatoes and salad. "Mhhm. You had me rolling Gio. I couldn't stop giggling."

"Being mean just comes naturally," I wink straight towards Esteban. He rolls his eyes, hiding his amusement.

Finishing up my cake, a three-layer white chocolate raspberry creation, I stop the jokes and get serious. "There is this one question that's been eating me up on the inside."

Esteban looks up from his plate. "Shoot."

"Why did Sofia poison my water bottle in the Arena?"

The chit-chatting stops. Forks are down. Drinks are pushed away. Faces go grim, particularly Dante's and his team's. Only the soft opera music from the ceiling speakers can be heard in the now muted room. Was what I said wrong? A forbidden question? I don't understand why everyone is giving me that look, that 'How could he bring that up at a time like this?' look. This is the perfect time to ask, when everyone is around to answer.

Esteban is caught off guard. Clearly, he was not expecting me to ask him _that_. "Does it matter? You won."

"Of course it matters. She damned near killed me."

"But Giovanni-"

Yesenia cuts him off, soft, wizened voice chirping in. "No, no Esteban. Let him hear the truth."

Straightening up in her seat, I prepare myself for the answer. If I am to live with the memory of my district partner, I need to know just what her intentions were that first day I saved her from Chiffon and took her under my wing, even after we promised not to save each other before going in. The truth needs to be revealed. I deserve that much.

"Sofia didn't poison your water bottle."

My mouth flies open. Under the table, a hand grips my own. Rhapsody.

"Then who did?"

Yesenia smiles, thin wrinkles pressed against her mouth and forehead. She has been a Victor for quite some time now, has been through tribute after tribute. She is used to answering difficult questions. Numb to it perhaps. "No one dear. It was the Gamemakers' doing. That scene where Sofia stumbled upon the room filled with water? Every other bottle held a different poison we were told."

"It was simply the luck of a draw."


	3. Tres

**Tres**

During the Games, there were times where I imagined how life would be after I won. These were rare occurrences of course, too preoccupied with Chiffon and Eli's plots to kill me to think of anything besides that. And after the Sofia incident, I pretty much knew there was no future beyond getting cozy in a wooden box. But the times I did have hope of making it out alive, I let my imagination run wild. Embracing Esteban and Yesenia, partying it up in the Capitol, romancing Rhapsody till the cows came home, seeing my family again and throwing a fiesta that'll have the pigs and chickens dancing, becoming a living legend, bringing home a tribute every year.

Instead, I'm spending the first of my glory days with my head and butt, whichever end decides to open first, on the golden throne. Mind you a very expensive golden throne, but a toilet nevertheless. Gagging one last time, I go to stare at the mess I've made. Orangeish-brown is splattered all along the bowl, some spilling over to the toilet seat, toilet side, and marble flooring from when I couldn't open the top off in time. Tiny pieces of food float in the gooey mixture of vomit, phlegm, stomach acid, and toilet water. Strips of chicken. A whole piece of broccoli. Yesterday's dinner hurled up for a second helping. The sight and smell of it causes me to gag again, only this time nothing but air comes out. What's there left to cough up, my guts?

Stumbling outside the dim washroom, streams of sunlight come pouring through the rectangular windows lining the walls, shooing away the remnants of sleep still on my eyes. Dammit, what time is it? When I went in, it was still dark. Or was that the third time I got up to empty my bowels?

To say I've been having a rough morning would be the understatement of the year. After last night's dinner, I felt like shit, physically and emotionally. I couldn't get Sofia out of my mind (still can't), so I tried to sleep. I couldn't get the others out of my head (still can't), so I woke up. This kept going on and on until the vomiting and diarrhea began. Originally, Rhapsody was eager to sleep with me, jumping in bed before I could and cuddling up to my warm body. But between the nightmares, the hallucinations, and the decorating the silk sheets and her custom-made, Tigris Ermacora nightgown a new shade of green, I found myself alone on a bare mattress two hours into the night. The medicine the Capitol gave me yesterday was clearly a temporary remedy, enough for me to function and appear competent for my Victory Interview then ship me off in whatever condition I may be in to Ten.

Even through the sickness and exhaustion, I couldn't go to sleep. I didn't want to. Why would I when they wait for me there? I don't dream anymore. Just nightmares. They give me two choices: relive the horror of the Games down to the exact details or enjoy the warped, hooked on morphling version. Last night it was Penelope dying over, and over, and over again. Two nights ago a derma digger infested Creek decided to pay a visit along with a bloody Radiance and a headless Valor. It was a triple-team matchup: Radiance to my left, Valor on my right, Creek pinning me down, choking me to death, resurrecting me, then going at it again. Eli decided to join in on the fun next, shoving off the Careers and mounting me. He didn't yell, scream, or do anything. Just stared me down.

I still remember the scent his wounds. Fresh, sharp, iron tones. Gamey almost, like a wild dog's perhaps.

I hate going to sleep. Sleep is when the horror begins, and the horror feels so _real_. I need a Vroom! Vroom! Bar. It's been too long since I've had one. The physical craving is gone, but the psychological craving…it never left. I can't function without my comfort. It helped me win the Games. It couldn't be too harmful to rely on it every once in a while. Other Victors have demons far worse than a simple energy bar.

How am I gonna secure my supply of Vroom! Vroom! Bars without Esteban or Yesenia noticing?

_BOOP!_

My plans are halted when I run straight into something. That something turns out to be a tall man. A tall, angry who's rubbing his pointy nose after our head-on collision.

"Did they remove your eyes too you mindless Avox?" he grumbles, scraping my bare shoulder with his colored nails. A hiss comes out of me, from the light pain and the man's attacking me. He's lucky I'm too sick to retaliate.

Through my accidental wandering I've landed in the backside of the train. The smaller compartments make up this portion, though they're still pretty much Capitol-sized: spacious and outrageously large. In the center of the room sits a daybed upholstered in an overly feminine design, smothered in pillows and blankets. Around the place stand a few furniture pieces I don't see serving much use beyond decoration. There's an end table, floor mirror, bare bookcase, and floral arrangements. I guess this is a longue or waiting room of sorts.

The tall man looks at me. I look at him. We must be thinking the same question: what the hell are you doing here?

The man goes to complain about an unsightly bruise and reporting me to my boss when suddenly something shuts him up. Pushing his face uncomfortably close to mines, his already beady eyes squint then widen, just about popping out of his blackened eyelids. The stench of wine, stale cologne, and sweat radiates from the man's body. Combined with the steady rock of the train, I'm three seconds away from rushing to the bathroom for another round of Del Rojo vs. Bowl.

"You won?" he shouts, gazing at me with the eyes of a non-believer witnessing a supernatural being in the flesh.

I swallow, partially to keep the vomit down and partially to avoid telling this guy off. He's obviously talking about the Games, but what does he mean 'I won'? Of course I won!

I taste the bile in my throat when I go to speak. "Were you in hiding for the past two-three weeks? And who are you? Only District Ten people were allowed to board this train."

Putting his hands on his hips, the man purses his lips, offended that I don't recognize him. "Who else would I be Giovanni?"

The dramatic get-up. That annoying accent. The ever present odor of alcohol…

"Picasso?"

He curtsies, then swiftly comes back up. "Yours truly Del Rojo."

Paying closer attention to his features, I see that the man really is Picasso, but a drastically changed one. He has ditched the awful black body paint (thank Panem) in place of what I assume to be his natural skintone, a golden olive tone. His blue wig is gone as well, replaced by a multicolored black, green and white ponytail running down his back nearly sweeping the burgundy carpet. The lime green top and black tights and boots are also upgrades from that train wreck of a suit he had on before. Unfortunately, the pink teeth are still there and it's like a drunken horse slathered on his makeup by the haphazard way it's been designed. Before the Games he was a murderous clown with a horrible skin condition. Now he's a cross-dressing marching band member who did his makeup in the dark. Progress is progress I guess.

Aw. Now I can't call him Clownface. Getting cheap thrills out of insulting Picasso is what got me by and he had the nerve to go and make himself look like a semi human being.

I think I feel a little betrayed by his makeover.

I don't mean for it to come out as a question, but lo and behold it does. "Nice look?"

Geez, I can't even _try_ to be nice to my escort.

Picasso notices the slight sarcasm, raising one eyebrow but ignoring the hidden jab. "Why thank you. Fashions come and go in the Capitol. Can't be seen with the same look for too long."

Nodding, I change the subject. Discussing the big city's fashion trends is far from my to-do list. "Not meaning anything by this but why are you here? Better yet, where were you all this time?"

"Getting a full body scrub. Sea salt, porifera, the works," he hums. "It takes a day to get the paint off and another to recover. All that intense scrubbing leaves you redder than a robster."

I don't know what a lobster is but I assume it's not something a Capitolite would want to resemble.

Picasso plays with his floor-length extensions as he speaks, swinging the end of it like a cowboy would a small lasso. He looks quite ridiculous doing the motion. "An escort's job really isn't needed until after the Victory Interview anyway."

An eyebrow is raised. "How come?"

"Because I'm coming home with you."

My laugh has Picasso jumping out of his skin. Cowering behind the daybed, he curses at himself then at me. "Damn you boy, it's too early for that nonsense!"

This has to be a joke. What is he, an added bonus to winning? My escort staying in District Ten. Living with me. How? Why? No way! For what possible reason could Picasso Notoriano have for staying home with me? Capitolites aren't made for the district life, especially not something like my escort. I can see him now: complaining about the manure, criticizing my family, guzzling down all the tequila and moonshine he could find. He wouldn't last 24 hours back home, and that's being nice.

He comes from behind the furniture, glaring my way. "I'm not too thrilled to walk the turd-filled streets of Ten. Can barely do it when it's Reaping season but a job is a job. And stop your laughing boy. You settle down or I'll stay two days longer just to aggravate you."

That shuts me up. I notice that for once, my escort is not totally wasted, or even tipsy. When he isn't too inebriated to function, Picasso seems of a man that you could somewhat respect. A groggy, slightly disoriented man but someone you could see helping tributes through their way in the Capitol and not going off to partying the week of training. At least not every night.

"Escorts are required to show their winning tribute the proper social and lifestyle etiquette of a Victor," Picasso explains. "Since it's a near miracle for you people to bring home the living and your pre-Games conditions are just about inhumane, Victors from non-Career districts need extra polishing and attention. Unfortunately. I doubt Victor Ventura or Ruiz can do the job. Victor Casalez, possibly. Had Victor Ibarra not been so ill I wouldn't have nearly as much on my plate."

"Gee, thanks for your concern."

Pink teeth gleam and glimmer into a smile. "I wouldn't do it if I had to. Now, come with me. I have an incredible hangover and you look ready to kill over. You and me both need to fill our bellies. Even if you are," he looks me up and down. "Still in your underwear."

A hint of something devious crosses his eyes. Was that curiosity? Lust? "Blue boxer briefs. Not bad."

My hands go to cover up my privates to shoo my escort's lingering gaze away. Ain't no way you're touching this, pervert. District Thirteen would be discovered before that happens.

I had honestly planned on going back to bed or at least setting aside time to prepare for breakfast, not ready to face the world yet, but with Picasso's smooth hands entwined in mine, I'm dragged down the tumbling train's compartments. My character of an escort chatters on about the happenings of the Capitol, exciting going-ons I missed while off killing a few children. I only catch some of the man's jibber-jabber, not really thinking anything he's talking about being top priority in my life. There are knockoffs of my Interview suit already in production. A party being held tomorrow night is called 'Freaks in Fur'. Whatever that entails I do not want to know. Three babies were named Giovanni yesterday. One person, a woman at that, is now the beaming 'Ms. Del Rojo Abbiati'.

Who knew Victors have such a massive effect on the Capitol crowds. To name your child after us. Are we revered in the Capitol, seen as untouchable gods to the masses? I'm not sure whether to be honored or disgusted. Winning the Hunger Games really isn't that serious. Well, it is but not to _that_ extent. I'm just a rancher kid who got lucky, and I'm feeling anything but unstoppable or godlike right about now.

"And whips are the hottest toys for kids now. Shopowners can't keep them on their shelves. The rhinestone-encrusted and glow in the dark ones are the best sellers…why good morning, good morning everyone!" Picasso yells when we enter the room, plopping down on the cushy velvet seats and immediately starts commanding the room.

"What is this: breakfast or the Hunger Games? Bring out more plates, please," he dictates to an older Avox beside him. The greying man hops to it, disappearing through a doorway bringing along three others. The extravagant man turns his attention to his colleagues. "How are you two? Panem knows I need a pill and a good mimosa after the slew of celebration parties I've had to attend."

It seems that Esteban and Yesenia have beaten us to breakfast, rising up early (or early compared to the hour I had planned on getting up at) to enjoy the Capitol's delights before we arrive in Ten. A modest plate of fruits, pastry, and omelet sit in front of each, bite-sized compared to the feast already coming out for Picasso. Neither mentor seems too thrilled to see the man, the mood in the room shifting with his appearance. Yesenia is, as usual, more discreet with her emotions, greeting him with a polite good morning and throwing in a smile as well.

"I've been better," replies Esteban, not looking up from his plate. _Baboso_. Talking about me being snarky. Eyes find me on the other side of the room. I haven't moved from the doorway yet, not trusting my stomach or bowels around so much food. Esteban shakes his head at the sight of my near naked body. Yesenia giggles a bit before going back to her plate.

"And here I was thinking we overdressed for this _colega_," says Esteban, chuckling a bit. Both mentors are dressed far less spectacularly now. No more furry fashions. It's jeans, t-shirt, and the standard-issue flimsy sandals we get back home in muted tones of blue and grey. The District Ten uniform. The glitz and glam have been wiped off as well. Early signs of aging appear on Yesenia's thin face, lining her cheeks and forehead. Faded scars, some small, some big, run down Esteban's arms, warrior marks that withstood the Capitol's tampering. With the Games over, there's no need to be dolled up anymore. I like them like this. They're more natural. More district.

My mentor pats a sit next to his and I move forward, cautiously making my way to the elaborate dining table. The closer I get though, the more my stomach wants to shoot out of my mouth. I finally do make it to the table, underwear clad and nauseated. I have to physically position myself away from Picasso's buffet, the aromas testing the limits of my intestines.

Yesenia spots my trouble first. "Drink this."

A large mug of something steaming is passed my way across the flowing bouquet in front of us. I take a sip. The tip of my tongue is scalded a bit but I go in for another, then another. Well shit, this is some good stuff!

"Spiced chocolate, topped with cream. Sprinkled with chili powder too. The traditional Ten way," Yesenia smiles.

Before I can down the marvelous elixir, a hand snatches it right from my grasp.

Who? What?

Esteban.

"I don't think that's in your diet Giovanni." My heaven in a mug is placed beside the big bad mentor on the edge of the table. I can see it staring at me, yelling 'Save me Giovanni! Save me!'

I'm gonna cry.

After my little 'incident' in the Training Center, the white coats have restricted me to the basics. Veggies, grains, fruits. Few meats, few dairy. No sweets, no spices, nothing to motivate me to continue living. A precautionary order 'until further notice'. Until further notice my ass. Do they really expect me to go back to District Ten, the birthplace of the chili pepper, and turn down _enchiladas de pollo_ smothered in _mole_? Where the saying is: "If you aren't crying, you ain't eating right?" I'm gonna starve if I listen to those donkeys. But Esteban seems to be taking the white coats' orders seriously. What's that about?

Yesenia agrees with me at least, challenging her younger colleague. "Let the boy live a little. He deserves it. Every day should be a celebration for him."

"Well I want him to see every day. You must not have heard him earlier. Sounded like he was near death in that bathroom."

Peering over her mug, her lips form a tight smile. "Are you questioning my abilities as Victor?"

Arms are folded. "Are you compromising my duties as mentor?"

The mug goes down. "Now that's just ridiculous Esteban. It's only one drink."

"But the doctors gave him a strict diet to adhere to."

She whispers her response, careful not to let Picasso and the cameras we know are hidden everywhere pick up on it. "Really Esteban? They're Capitol, what do they know?"

Picasso interrupts, clanking his champagne glass with a fork. Food spills out of his mouth as he speaks. "People, people. It is 11 in the morning. My brain doesn't turn on till 1. Save the spatting for when we're off this train. Me and my hangover have had enough of this."

That calms things down. For a few minutes. Yesenia says something that apparently ticks Esteban off and the battle continues. I'm not sure what's gotten into the man but something has really riled him up, particularly against Yesenia. His panties weren't this tight even before the Games.

Watching both mentors go at it reminds me of home. Yesenia is Mami, defending her child no matter what they did. Esteban is Papi, criticizing everything he sees. Picasso is all three of my siblings, sick of the fussing and intervening. And I'm just me, sitting back as the drama unfolds. It's like how we were before, at the dinner table, arguing and debating but eventually getting along or at least tolerating one another for the moment. Except it's not exactly the same. For it to be exactly the same, we would have one more person here. One more person who's currently stuffed in a box.

"I'm sorry." My apology interrupts a debate on how my Victor mansion will be organized. Yesenia is in mid-speech about freedom and individuality when she looks my way and lets out a slow sigh.

"Giovanni," she begins, rubbing her temples. "This is the eighth time you've apologized. There's no need to keep doing it."

Ever since Yesenia told me Sofia's act was a total mistake, I haven't felt the same since. All this time I've seen her as this malicious, backstabbing troll, disappointed that I didn't get the chance to finish her off myself. In reality, my district partner was just a scared Community kid thrown into the Hunger Games with little, if any, skills to show for. Thinking back on it, I don't remember Sofia doing exceptionally well at anything she tried her hand at. Not even average. I overshadowed her during the chariot rides, her training score was dismal, and she was like a petrified rat in that hanging brown mess Dante subjected her to during her interview. Had I'd taken the other water bottle, she would've accidentally taken herself out of the Games.

I was a jerk. A bully actually. Yes, I did save her from Chiffon, but the way I treated her throughout my short time of knowing her, it's unforgivable.

"I want to see her." I know she's here somewhere. She has to be. The losing tribute gets shipped the same time as their winning partner. That's how it was with Esteban.

Both mentors share a nervous glance. "In the very back of the train Giovanni, but don't worry-"

My voice rises. "I want to see her."

Esteban places a hand on my shoulder. "I know you're frustrated but it would do you no good seeing her. Trust us _amigo_. We've both been there."

A male's voice, dripped in Capitol, breaks through the room. Instinctively I jump, gripping the tables to steady myself, unnerved by the sudden noise. I'm back in that place, trapped on my plate, watching Morgana get blown to bits. Is that Templesmith telling us of the trivia rules? It's him! It's no one but him. I know it. I just know it.

Esteban rubs my back for support. "Easy Giovanni, easy. It's not him. It's not Templesmith."

A few seconds inch by till I come back to reality. I'm not in the Arena. I'm not in the Arena. I'm with my team, eating breakfast, having a nice time. It's not him on the intercom, telling us to answer correctly or die. Instead, there's another man, calmer, more soothing, delivering a much happier message.

"Twenty-three minutes until district arrival. Have a safe trip newest Victor."

My face is getting warm. I must look like a fool in front of my team. "I'm such an-"

Yesenia's calloused hand rubs the top of my own. "Shh. We know. We know."

Throughout this entire exchange, Picasso has said not one comforting word or done one sympathetic gesture to calm me down. What is it? Are Capitolites incapable of dealing with negative emotions? Maybe they've become numb to them, seeing them played out on the big screens year after year. Empathy and care must have been surgically removed during the same operation they received to get rid of their imperfections and common sense.

When the side doors to the rest of the train opens, he looks thankful for the distraction, speaking to us in a sickeningly cheerful manner. "Aren't you just happy to see home again? All of your family waiting for you by the train station. Just think of how ecstatic they'll be to see you!"

We nod in response, none of us really paying attention to the man's words. Looking up from the table, two familiar faces peep inside the compartment, silently stepping in to stand dutifully behind my chair.

Picasso motions towards the pair, referring to them like shiny new cars. "Titania's the older one. Pamsh's the younger girl. That's their assigned Avox names. Not sure of their former ones. They're yours to own now. A rather expensive gift from the President himself."

Devouring a cupcake, he finishes. "Consider yourself lucky boy; only the very rich can afford such possessions like these."

I feel like throwing up for an entirely different reason now. They're the same two that assisted me in the Training Center recovery room. Both stare at the wall in front of us, unmoving, avoiding all of our gazes. Pamsh does steal one tiny glance my way, just for a nanosecond, before turning away when she realizes I'm staring back. I 'own' them now? I do not want to own another human being. That's sick. Already I've vomited and bled on these two, and now they must serve me? Until when? Until I die? Until they die? Time and time again I'm proven that the Capitol really couldn't give two shits about their citizens. It never fails to disgust me.

"I thought you were my prize for winning the Games?" I joke. Really, I feel like punching him in the face. It's the closest I'll get to beating up Snow.

Picasso gives me a look. "Aren't you the humorous one. Originally we only wanted Pamsh, however the older one refused to let her leave without tagging along."

I stare at my mentors. Neither says a word. "We?"

Esteban and Yesenia wouldn't. No. That's not like them.

"The mentors and I. I was content to just taking one but they pulled some strings and allowed you to take both. They're companions I guess." He finishes his mimosa and calls for another, tapping the empty glass with his fork again.

"Sisters," I correct him. "They're sisters Picasso." I'm not in the mood for the man's brainless personality. Since I'm going to have prolonged exposure to the Capitolite, I should try being nicer or at least civil towards him. Yet Picasso, as usual, is pushing all the wrong buttons, and this time it's accidental. Maybe it's my unstable emotions right now. Or maybe my escort is simply a royal pain in the ass to handle. Probably the latter. Actually, I don't want to be bothered with any of them. To buy two teenaged girls to make servants out of them? I thought Esteban and Yesenia were above that. They're just as bad as the Capitolites, if not worst.

"Oh yes sure." The slender drink has already lured and seduced my escort's interest away from the conversation. A lost cause now.

To avoid leaping out of this chair and having them sic Lulu on me, I distract myself with food. Though I should fill up my now evacuated stomach, I barely make a dent on my plate. Four cubes of watermelon, bites of an omelet, a lick of something called doughnut, and what felt like a gallon of water is what I manage. I must really be sick because I've never skimped out this much on a meal. My nickname growing up wasn't _gordito_ for nothing. After my little episode, I've become the center of attention. Esteban and Yesenia monitor my actions like a parent would to their problem child, whispering soothing words, never letting me leave their sight. Their excessive kindness is getting on my nerves. I don't need their help and I damn sure don't want it now. I bite my tongue, staying silent. If I lash out that'll just give them more reason to suspect I've lost my mind.

The disembodied voice is back. "Ten minutes until district arrival."

I get up from the table. Both mentors shoot up from their chairs. "I'm getting dressed."

"I'll help," says Esteban, following me through the door.

"Didn't know you had a thing for guys _amigo_. That would explain a lot."

"Giovanni," he grumbles. We stay silent the way to my room compartment, Esteban trailing behind me. Getting inside, I immediately head to the walk-in closet across from the bed.

Esteban breaks the quiet. "Giovanni."

White or purple? I'm not too much of a fan of bright colors but this shirt is more breathable.

"Look at me."

I'll stick with the white one. Hm…this button-up isn't too bad. Would show off my muscles.

"Giovanni…"

Pants or shorts? District Ten's gonna be hotter than a cow's backside. These are nice shorts. Soft. Nice quality. A little too short though. I'm not about to-

"Giovanni!" hollers Esteban. I'll admit; he made me jump a bit. Okay, off the ground. Hands on both my shoulders, I'm whipped around to face him. I ready myself for the slew of angry words I'm sure he's been dying to let loose. Instead, he does nothing at all. In the young Victor's dark eyes is not fury or even irritation. There's frustration. Sadness. Not at me. But towards who? Picasso? The Capitol? Himself?

"What is your problem?" His gaze is locked down on me. Did I mention how intimidating Esteban is when he's angry?

I parry with the only defense mechanism I know of: sarcasm. "I'm as fine as a dandelion. Yourself?"

His grip grows tighter. "Cut it out boy. What was up at the table? You barely spoke two words to us after the Avoxes came in."

"Because you bought them Esteban!" I confess, hating myself for the level of emotion I allow out. "They're only teenagers. Younger than me probably. You don't see how sick that is, to have them as my personal asswipers?"

His voice goes to a whisper, a whisper so low and furious I'm instantly reconsidering my comment. "Don't you ever in your life scold me on my actions Giovanni. You have no idea, no _fucking_ idea of the things we're put through. Yesenia and I, we had to bust our asses off for you to get out of that Arena alive. People gave up on you. Wrote you off as dead. Eventually Yesenia did too. But I worked my hardest, compromised my dignity and self-respect to have you standing where you are now. So yes, I may not be too honky-dory right now. I have every right not to be. What I did for those girls was rescue them from a life of sorrow and servitude. I _saved_ Titania and Pamsh. Having them in District Ten is the closest thing they're ever gonna get to freedom. Do you understand Giovanni?"

I can't even look him in the eye. "Yes."

"I didn't hear you."

My head flings up. "Yes Papi! Is that what you want?"

The insult is dismissed and I'm left looking like a bratty child. "Giovanni, you truly don't know what the Capitol is capable of. They do things to people you could never imagine. I beg that they spare you."

"Five minutes until district arrival."

With that, Esteban leaves and I'm left hanging onto his last words. He hopes they spare me? From what? They've already put me through the Hunger Games, a possible chronic illness, and everlasting nightmares. What could possibly top that?

Casting the thought aside, I throw on the first thing my hands touch. Putting on the fitted tee and khaki shorts, I slip on my old sandals from home (Esteban delivered them to me yesterday) and attempt to fight with my hair. It won't cooperate and ends up a mess. Typical. I still need to get used to having it so short. Rhapsody isn't here to help me out with it. She won't be here for a long time.

Walking through the compartments and arriving inside the dining room, I find that the state of affairs has been flipped upside down. Picasso is shouting orders to the Avoxes, who are flying around the place like decapitated chickens. Esteban and Yesenia are caught up in another debate though this time the pair is far calmer than earlier. In the center Titania and Pamsh are still standing at attention, waiting for the next command. Suitcases dressed in silver –the color of this year's Games - are in each of their hands. In Pamsh's left hand lies a smaller package. I don't do much traveling, no one does in the districts, but I would imagine it not caring much cause of its size.

I point to the suitcases, addressing anyone who's listening. "What are those for?"

Yesenia breaks from her conversation with Esteban. "Take home items for you from the Capitol. Souvenirs of sorts."

Souvenirs. As if I was on vacation.

I'm about to remark on the Victor's word choice when I see it rolling outside the window.

The dry desert dirt.

The endless rows of tan and orange.

Clear, sparkling blue skies.

Cacti.

Vultures.

Snakes.

Adobes.

Herds.

People. My people.

A wall of gray slaps it away and I let out a small whimper, having to remind myself the block of steel is the train station and not the Arena. Those heinous walls are soon replaced with the sights of civilization. Packed inside the lining area are, unfortunately, Capitolites. Photographers, journalists, and other seemingly very important/attention seeking people waiting for my arrival. Peacekeepers block their way, partially for their safety, mostly for mine. And in the middle of all the chaos, I spot them. It's easy finding them: few people frequent the place, save cargo shippers and the station must be on lockdown because even they are nowhere in sight. But there they are, even little Viviana and the rest of my ninty-seven nieces and nephews.

"Hold your horses Del Rojo," Picasso grabs me away from the doorway. Get off of me man! I want to see my family.

The doors open and before the train can come to a proper close, I'm out. I don't feel the wave of hellheat that already soaks my skin with sweat. I don't hear the yells of my mentors and escort telling me to stop. I don't see the rush of the paparazzi hungry for a photo or the Peacekeepers ready to push them away. All I know is that I'm in my parents' arms and that I'm crying and that I don't wanna stop and that they don't wanna stop either.

Because I'm home.

I'm finally home.


End file.
